Fear at its Finest

What inspired me to write this poem was a false sense of fear I believed it was. I hope people understand the point I am trying to get across and not think I’m some sort of psychopath or something.

Walking through the graveyard, Sleeping in a cave, Falling to your death, Drinking poison. These things will haunt you forever, Because they are used against you, To make you fear, The one who wields them. The one who is called Fear. The story is one untold, From the fear it causes, The ones who hear it. The story goes like this; Fear is not something you can hear. But you can, In the screams of the tortured. Fear is not something you can see. But you can, In the eyes of the broken. Fear is not something you smell. But you can, In the debris of a war zone. It is not something, You can rid yourself of, Because of the possessive power it holds. Nor is it something that you want, But in truth, Everybody has it. Everyone is it. Haven’t you guessed yet? I’m talking about you. You, Fear, put hurt in the eyes of many. You, Bullies, tear down kids for the fun of it. You, Terrorists, scare those who you are trying to save. You, Cancer, who take the lives of many, and put others in anxiety. What’s the point, If we’re hurting the ones we care for? This is a problem we can’t face, Because in truth, We are Fear. We are the instigators, Of the problems we face. We are Fear. And all of the qualities, It has. We are Fear. We are the ones, Who tear down others, For the pleasure of it. We are Fear. And the ones who love it.

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